Black
by Lady Dudley
Summary: For as long as he had known him, Sherlock had always worn a blue scarf; now he only ever wore black.


**A/N: Loosely based off the _Castle_ episode 'After Hours' and something I wanted to do in regards to Sherlock's scarf. Hope you like it :)****  
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**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

_**Black**_

At first it was just the words: his voice low and insistent; her voice soft and trusting, but confused.

"_Do you trust me?" _

"…_Yes."_

"_Then run."_

Then more details came into focus, details that he shied away from; he didn't _want_ to remember.

_They were running down the darkened street, she was lagging behind and he stopped to wait for her._

"_Take my hand," he commanded, grabbing her hand before she could respond, "don't let go," he added before taking off again, pulling her with him._

_He'd made a small blunder in coming to see her when he knew the danger was at its height, but he'd been so close to closing the case that he'd allowed himself the small indulgence._

_Only to find that he'd been followed and, now, she was in danger as well._

He frowned, plucking the strings at the neck of his violin absently as the memories continued.

_They stopped for a moment, backs flat against the wall of a building; alert for any sign of their pursuers._

"_Care to tell me what this is about?" she asked, catching her breath._

"_A minor development on a case," he said absently, peering around the corner, he glanced back at her, "I didn't mean for you to become involved," he added. _

_She smiled a little, knowing that was as close to an apology as she was going to get._

"_What now?" she asked._

"_We stay out of sight and hope the police do their job," he replied, checking the coast was clear. "We need to get across the road," he continued, looking back at her, "are you ready?"_

"_Lead on McDuff," she said cheerfully._

_At any other time he probably would have rolled his eyes at her attempt at humour, but instead he chose to ignore it as he ran across the street, dragging her behind him._

"No," he hissed, accidentally snapping one of the strings on his violin in his agitation.

He didn't want to remember anymore and he tried desperately to block the memory before it resurfaced but, for once, his mind disobeyed him.

_They were close, so close to reaching a point of safety when she'd suddenly fallen to the ground._

"_We don't have time for this," he muttered, thinking she'd slipped and turning to help her up._

_He froze when he realised she hadn't slipped; she'd been shot._

_She looked up at him with frightened eyes as blood stained the front of her top, he dropped to his knees beside her, trying to stop the flow. _

_He hadn't even heard the shot._

"_Go," she ordered, "they're too close, just leave me."_

_He set his mouth in a grim line, "I'm _not_ leaving you here," he told her, ignoring her feeble attempts to push him away and gathering her up in his arms. _

"_It's too late," she whispered, but he ignored her._

_Clutching her closer to him, he carried her the rest of the way to the abandoned building he'd spotted a couple of blocks away. _

_By the time he found a safe place inside to hide, she was dead._

_He cradled her against his chest; whispering incoherently all the things he now wished he'd said when she was alive and absently wiping away the suspicious moisture in his eyes._

_He was still holding her and sobbing when the police found him two hours later._

He let out a shuddering breath as the memory subsided.

She was dead and it was all his fault. She was dead because he'd had a foolish need to see her and, in his arrogance, hadn't considered the danger it might put her in to do so.

It was of small comfort to know that her murders had been apprehended and would not be released.

It didn't matter, nothing would bring her back.

"Sherlock?" John asked nervously, breaking him from his thoughts, "You've, uh, got another case," he said meekly.

Sherlock gave a curt nod and stood up; slipping into his coat and reaching out to grab his scarf as he did so.

John watched in silence as he looped the scarf around his neck; it had been three months since Molly Hooper had died and Sherlock had not been the same since.

There were many things, little things really, that marked the change in the other man but for John nothing spoke more eloquently of his grief than his change in scarf.

For as long as he had known him, Sherlock had always worn a blue scarf; now he only ever wore black.


End file.
